Deep beneath the Iceberg Lounge, the air carried a lingering, stale smell--a mix of years of mold and expensive cigars.
The combination of the two scents was like someone stuffing a block of moldy cheese into a safe full of cash; it was both bizarre and strangely fitting.
Oswald Cobblepot was laboring to sink himself into his custom-made leather swivel chair.
The chair was custom-ordered, built a full ten centimeters shorter than a standard office chair. This way, when he sat down, his feet could rest firmly on the floor instead of dangling helplessly in midair like they did everywhere else.
Spread across the solid wood desk in front of him were three crumpled maps.
The first map charted Batman's patrol routes, dense with red lines that resembled a ball of yarn tangled by a cat.
The second mapped the Maroni family's sphere of influence, with several key strongholds circled in blue ink.
The third was a defensive layout of Falcone's dock warehouses, with every sentry post and patrol route clearly marked.
The Penguin stared at the layout of the docks, a sinister malice gleaming in his small eyes.
He had been Falcone's second-in-command for far too long--so long that he felt his rear end was growing calluses from the seat.
The old man always fancied himself the guardian of Gotham's order, constantly preaching nonsense like "even the mob has rules." But the Penguin knew damn well that rules were just ropes used by the strong to bind the weak, and he, Oswald Cobblepot, was never meant to be the one bound.
He only wanted Gotham's money.
All of it!
Clutching a sharp letter opener, the Penguin scraped the tip across the map, making a harsh, grating sound.
His avian intelligence network had already brought back news. That Spider-Man fellow, who dressed like a red-and-blue plastic bag, had recently teamed up with the big Bat.
The two freaks had shown some pretty seamless teamwork back at Black Mask's factory, playing his False Face Society like a fiddle.
Holding the letter opener, the Penguin viciously carved three thick, brutal lines across the map.
With this single cut, he directly linked Falcone's dock warehouses with Maroni's territory.
He was going to thoroughly muddy these stagnant waters!
He would set an ambush at the docks to shoot down that big Bat who flew around all day. Then, he would anonymously leak some intel to provoke Maroni--that short-fused idiot--into leading his men into the fray.
Once these factions fought each other to a bloody pulp, he would step in with his own men to reap the rewards.
With Batman crippled, he would be the number one meritorious official in front of the old man. With Maroni severely weakened, a massive chunk of territory in the East End would naturally open up. As for that lunatic Black Mask, it would be best if he joined the party too; the muddier the water, the easier it was to catch the fish.
The Penguin turned his head to look at a featherless crow perched on a nearby rack.
He had raised that crow himself. It was far more dependable than most of his human subordinates; it didn't lie, it didn't betray, and it didn't get weak-kneed out of fear of death at a crucial moment.
"Let them bite each other. Let them bite until not even a scrap of bone is left, and then we clean up."
He let out a raspy laugh that sounded like a leaking bellows. The laughter echoed through the basement a few times before slowly fading away.
The featherless crow tilted its head, staring back at him with a single, black-bead eye. A coarse, raspy croak escaped its throat, seemingly in agreement, or perhaps in urging.
The orders were swiftly dispatched.
The underground section of the entire Iceberg Lounge began to creak into motion like a rusty machine. The sounds of footsteps, drawing slides, and low-hummings of commands intertwined into a cacophony throughout the narrow corridors.
Meanwhile, Chen Mo was crouching in his leaky attic, busy as a farmer who had just finished harvesting his crops.
He had lined up a long row of dog bowls on the floor--six of them in total.
Each one was filled to the brim with the cheapest puppy kibble bought from the pet store--the kind with larger pellets that smelled of cheap grease.
Next to them stood three large stainless steel bowls filled with water, neat and orderly. A layer of unfiltered impurities settled at the bottom, drawn straight from the tap.
The puppy, Bruce, was crouching in a tattered cardboard box, tilting his little head to watch him.
His stubby little tail occasionally slapped against the wall of the box, making a rhythmic pattering sound.
The spider-silk splint on his broken hind leg had already been removed. Although he still walked with a slight limp, he could already hop out of the cardboard box by himself to wander around the room.
Chen Mo crouched down and playfully, yet crossly, rubbed those furry ears. Bruce narrowed his eyes and nudged his head into Chen Mo's palm.
"Just make do with this for now. Over the past couple of days, those mobs outside have been acting like they swallowed gunpowder, fighting everywhere. My night patrols are more intense than corporate overtime. I collapse into bed the second I get back. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I touched a drawing pen?"
Chen Mo curled his lip, looking thoroughly displeased.
Bruce licked his fingers, wagging his tail even harder.
"The storyboards for the next chapter of our comic are still stuck on page three, completely untouched. This is all money, Bruce. Do you understand what creative costs mean? The manuscript fee is two thousand dollars a chapter. Deducting material costs, your dog food, and my compressed biscuits, what's left is barely enough to save up for the nanotech suit. Do you know how expensive a nanotech suit is? No, you don't. You're just a dog."
Bruce let out a yawn, clearly entirely uninterested in his financial plight.
Chen Mo filled the last dog bowl and stood up, forcefully stretching his aching shoulders.
His shoulder blades let out a sharp crack, sounding like a potato chip being crushed underfoot.
He walked to the window and glanced out at the gloomy Gotham night sky. The clouds were as thick as a greasy, unwashed rag, obscuring even the edges of the moon.
Tonight didn't look like a peaceful night where he could go to bed early.
Chen Mo sighed.
With the intensity of the fighting over the last two days, both he and Batman were practically running around like spinning tops. Last night was a smuggling case at the dock warehouses, the night before was a weapons deal in an East End alley, and he didn't even want to recall the night before that--anyway, it had to do with Falcone's people.
Every single time he was just about to wrap up and head back to rush his draft, gunfire would ring out, regular as an alarm clock.
When Chen Mo used to watch the movies, he always thought Batman was pretty cool.
The black cape, the deep voice, leaping down from rooftops looking like a massive, silent Grim Reaper.
Immensely badass.
Now, he just felt that this job was absolutely unhuman.
Keep in mind that their current state of spinning like tops was even with two vigilantes on the job!
Under normal circumstances, when Batman operated alone in Gotham, how on earth did that man manage to handle all this work?
Did he have shadow clones?
Or did he just not sleep at all, popping a couple of caffeine pills every night before heading out?
Oh, right, Batman also had to maintain his identity as Bruce Wayne, occasionally showing his face to attend galas and pick up chicks.
How did he manage it?
Does a peak human truly not need sleep?
Chen Mo shook his head, tossing these random thoughts aside.
Regardless of how Batman endured it, he definitely couldn't skip tonight's patrol.
Chen Mo swiftly slipped into the suit that was covered in patches.
He'd just have to make do. Once the next manuscript fee cleared in a couple of days, he'd make a brand new one.
Chen Mo pulled the mask down over the bridge of his nose and looked down at Bruce in the cardboard box. "Watch the house. Don't chew on my slippers, that's the only pair I have left."
Bruce gave a bark and rested his chin on the edge of the cardboard box, watching him flip out through the vent.
Cut back to the Iceberg Lounge.
The Penguin stood before a massive bird rack, which was crowded with dozens of pigeons, crows, and sparrows. Their feathers gleamed oily under the dim light, and an occasional flap of wings kicked up a small cloud of dust.
The Penguin grabbed a handful of premium bird feed and tossed it out casually. The birds instantly grew restless, scrambling to peck at the golden grains.
He truly loved birds.
Was he not well-deserved of his reputation as a birdman?
Every single one of the birdman's pigeons was a living surveillance camera; every crow was a messenger that would never leak a secret.
They knew nothing of justice or evil; they only knew grains and nests, and this short, plump man who fed them three times a week.
Information trickled in piece by piece, assembling into a complete, real-time map of the battlefield.
Batman was currently driving that flashy car of his, tracking a so-called arms deal. That deal was a bait personally laid out by the Penguin; everything from the weapons inventory to the delivery location was fake. The only real thing was the route leading to the dock area.
Batman was driving bit by bit into the trap.
As for that Spider-Man, he had just swung through the East End, casually wrapping up two muggers into cocoons to hang from a streetlight, even leaving behind a sticky note with a cute, abstract drawing on it.
Everything was going according to his script. Batman was walking into the cage, Maroni was being provoked, and Spider-Man was still wandering aimlessly in the East End. Every chess piece was moving in the direction it was supposed to.
The Penguin raised his head and repeated those same words to the pitch-black crow.
"Let them bite each other. Once they're done, we clean up."
The crow tilted its head, looking at him with its black-bead eye.
Then, it spread its wings, took flight from the rack, flew through the basement's ventilation shaft, and vanished into Gotham's gloomy night sky.
Standing before the bird rack, the Penguin watched the direction where the crow had disappeared, his fingers slowly tracing the patterns on the handle of his umbrella.
He was highly satisfied with his plan.
Every step was calculated; every variable was considered.
Maroni would join the fray, Batman would be injured, Falcone would see his value, and he would emerge as the ultimate winner in this chaotic clash.
Jie-jie-jie-jie-jie!
A perfect plan.
Right?